


Maybe a Little Bit Personal

by Forestwater



Series: The Creatively-Titled Camp Camp AU Collection [3]
Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: i'm a sucker for gwenvid okay, not necessarily shipping, okay maybe it's a little shippy, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-11-23 12:16:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11402238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forestwater/pseuds/Forestwater
Summary: "You motherfucker," she growled. "I should just blow your head off right now, you son of a bitch.""Sorry! It's nothing personal, really!" And he shouldn't look so sweet and bashful, not with a blade like that in his hand, but there was something oddly contrite about him.His eyes landed on her purse, which she'd dropped after retrieving her gun, and with a cautious glance in her direction he nudged it open with his foot. His eyebrows shot up and he kicked the bag towards her, both of them watching as a syringe rolled across the cheap pilled rug. "Is that . . . chloroform?"





	1. Ed and Cathy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ciphernetics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ciphernetics/gifts).



> Heavily inspired by doritofalls' [Serial Killer David AU,](http://doritofalls.tumblr.com/post/150263672776/finally-got-around-drawing-some-of-that-famous) as well as this prompt: "A male and female serial killer meet on a dating site, not knowing each other's dark intentions to murder their date. It gets awkward once they realize what the other is really doing."

She chose a seat near the window, as far away as possible from any doors. It was the worst place for a killer to pick; no easy escape, plenty of potential witnesses both inside the restaurant and out. The kind of location that should make someone feel more comfortable with a stranger, even though they weren't aware of the feeling. It was easier to let your guard down somewhere very public.

Her hobby relied heavily on getting people to let their guards down.

She glanced at her phone, then up at the (too far) door. If she'd been stood up, it wouldn't be the end of the world. There was a bar just across the street; she chose the restaurant because of it, so that if things went south she wouldn't have to go far to find someone drunk and desperate to take home. But it would be . . . annoying. And every minute that passed made the itch burning under her skin worse, curling her toes and making her rap her fingers erratically on the shiny-as-glass wood table.

She looked down at her phone again, opening Tinder and skimming over the most recent messages. Edward, 24, lived 15 miles away. _Cute_ , she thought with a smirk, tapping to his profile and skimming through his pictures. Big open smile, the kind that made him look years younger, brilliant red hair that she had trouble believing was natural, a surprisingly willowy build for such a tall guy. And his messages were adorable, too, lots of exclamation points and smiley faces.

She almost felt bad about this.

 _Almost_.

The clattering of footsteps lifted her head from the phone, and she watched with amusement as her dinner partner nearly tripped over the small step between the front of the restaurant and the room with their table. Trying to shrug his backpack and coat off at the same time without slowing his pace, he stumbled over to her. "Sorry, sorry! I . . . uh, there was a roadblock on the way here and it took forever to get through, and I would've told you earlier but it's not safe to text while driving —"

"It's only been ten minutes," she said, giving him her most charming grin. Not like she'd already been planning her next move or anything. "Really, don't worry about it."

"Oh good." He flopped into the chair across from her with a sigh of relief. "I was worried you'd . . . you know, leave." With a flash of that lovely smile, he held out his hand like they were at a job interview. "I'm Edward."

"Catherine." The lie was smooth and easy and familiar. She took his hand, surprised by how rough it was. His Tinder profile included a lot of stuff about archery and hiking; he must be outdoorsy. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise!" He gestured down at the menus in front of them. "I hope you ordered without me. I'd hate to think of you waiting."

"No, no, don't worry."

The conversation was easy and superficial, the kind of first-date nonsense as familiar to her as breathing. Edward was the awkward sort of charming that struck her as unintentional, the kind of person who seemed to never have made a calculated movement in his life. It was . . . _nice_ , in a strange way. Unfamiliar and endearing. More than once she found herself becoming genuinely interested in what he was saying and had to forcibly check out, letting her eyes roam over his pretty, delicate face and her mind follow in the logical direction.

It was easier when they were just meat.

"C-Catherine? I was just, um, wondering . . ." His face turned pink, and he looked down at their empty dishes, rubbing the back of his neck, "if — if maybe you'd like to get some coffee?" Her gaze dropped to the cups they'd just finished and he flushed darker. "I mean, well, I'm not, ah, staying very far from here, and . . ."

She might as well spare him the misery. After all, it was a hell of a lot more convenient than trying to deal with him back at her place. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Edward sighed, looking relieved. "Thank you! That's . . . I mean, I really . . . um. Appreciate it."

"No, it's fine." She laughed, pushing her chair back and stretching ostentatiously, hiding a smirk when his gaze traveled exactly where she'd wanted them to. "I'm not ready for tonight to be over yet, either."

* * *

"Not bad," she said, letting him usher her into the dark hotel room. "Sorry you drove all this way, though."

"Not at all!" He flicked on the light a little farther into the bedroom, leaving the one directly above their heads off so they hovered in the entranceway in half-gloom. His voice softened, at the same time getting nearer until his breath ghosted over her ear. "I really want to be here."

More forward than she'd expected, she thought, letting herself melt back against his chest as he pushed her hair away from her throat. She had to give him credit for not wasting time. His lips trailed softly along her shoulder and up her neck, shy and tentative. He pressed a damp, open-mouthed kiss against the shell of her ear and sighed, the shivery _whoosh_ of air ghosting past her ear almost enough to drown out a tiny clink of metal.

That . . . wasn't a belt. Couldn't be, he had one hand on her waist and the other —

Where _was_ his other hand?

Suspicion turned to alarm barely in time and she whirled around, shoving him back with one hand and fumbling in her purse with the other. He recovered just as she leveled her pistol at him, and though he didn't drop the long serrated knife he was holding, he took a few steps backward until he was pressed against the door, eyeing her warily as she backed into the center of the hotel room.

"You _motherfucker_ ," she growled. "I should just blow your head off right now, you son of a bitch."

"Sorry! It's nothing personal, really!" And he shouldn't look so sweet and bashful, not with a blade like that in his hand, but there was something oddly contrite about him.

Something clicked. Something offensive. "Wait, you were gonna kill me _immediately?"_ Her mouth dropped open and she crossed her arms over her chest. "You weren't even going to fuck me first?"

He blushed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I — ! I just feel like it'd be taking advantage. Since I b-brought you here under, well, false pretenses."

She rolled her eyes. "If I'm dying, I absolutely wanna get laid before. I mean, _Jesus_. Be a goddamn gentleman."

He winced. "Do you need to use that kind of language?"

"Uh, _yeah_. Why the fuck wouldn't I? Someone's got a fucking knife in my face, sorry my manners aren't perfect."

"O-okay, what if we —" His eyes landed on her purse, which she'd dropped after retrieving her gun, and with a cautious glance in her direction he nudged it open with his foot. His eyebrows shot up and he kicked the bag towards her, both of them watching as a syringe rolled across the cheap pilled rug. "Is that . . . chloroform?"

Well, _shit_. She knew she should've hidden it in a tampon wrapper. What was the point in bullshitting him now, though? "Isoflurane." She shrugged. "Works basically the same."

"But why a needle?" he asked with a frown. "What about the, well —" He covered his mouth and nose with the hand not holding a knife.

"Takes too long. I can usually inject someone while they're still in afterglow. Or sleeping."

His eyes lit up and he actually grinned at her. "That's really clever, Catherine!"

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. "What kinda serial killer doesn't even know how to knock someone out?"

"I-I do! I just . . . usually . . . hit them. To sleep." He looked away, the pink that'd been beginning to fade brightening across his cheeks and neck. "But mostly I don't . . . bother with all that. It's really just . . ." He held up his weapon and shrugged. "You know. Knife."

This was hands-down the weirdest conversation she'd ever had. "Listen, my feet are fucking killing me in these shoes," she said, jerking her head toward the armchair that sat across from the hotel bed. "And I dunno about you, but I don't get a chance to talk about this kinda thing all that often. Wanna chat?"

* * *

 "Wait, I've heard of you!" Her eyes brightened; she'd been lounging back on the bed while he took the chair, but now she sat forward, crossing her legs under her. "You're the one taking out those drifters along the east coast, right?" A smug light entered her eyes as he nodded. "I _knew_ it was all one guy! Y'know, the cops've been really shit about handling your case," she said, tutting. "Haven't even narrowed it down to a single killer yet. Takes one to know one, I guess."

"They, uh, haven't found all of them," he admitted, trying not to feel proud. "The, um . . ." He trailed off with a shrug; he didn't like to call them "victims." They _were_ , certainly, but that didn't make him comfortable thinking of them like that. So he changed the subject quickly. "What about you?"

"This is kinda off-type for me," she explained, fiddling with the safety on her gun. It should've frightened him, but mostly he was just fascinated by how obviously practiced she was, how deftly her fingers moved and the confidence she had that she was invincible. "Usually it's rapists who don't get caught, cops who shoot black kids, stuff like that." She leaned back against the headboard, remarkably at ease for someone within throwing distance of a knife. "But, y'know, money's been kinda tight, so it's not like I can afford to fly out to Missouri whenever I want. And you get that _itch_ . . ." She glanced up at him and he nodded. He knew exactly what kind of itch she was talking about. "So, started a Tinder account, you were the first person I saw in driving distance. Really, it's nothing personal."

"Nothing personal," he agreed. He sat down in the overstuffed blue chair, putting his legs up on the matching ottoman with a sigh. She didn't frighten him, and she seemed more interested in talking, anyway.

And he had to admit the fact that she thought so highly of him was flattering.

"But this isn't really your M.O. either, right?" She pulled out her phone, but the way his fingers tightened around the hilt of his knife made her toss it on the bed out of reach, giving him a reassuring smile and holding up her hands (a move that would've been more comforting if she wasn't still holding the gun). "The way the news described you, I thought you were more . . . spontaneous than this."

He chuckled quietly, feeling sheepish. "I-I am. I don't — there's no real, uh, strategy or anything. There's a lot of hitchhikers, drifters, you know? But there's been a lot more interest in the area I usually work in since . . . well . . ."

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, right! The Richmond kid." She grabbed one of the water bottles from the bedside table, inspecting the seal before cracking it open. "That was ballsy," she added, toasting him with the bottle.

"I didn't know who he _was!_ It's not like I expected a senator's son to be couch-surfing through Slee — where I live." It was stupid to be this cautious; they knew each other's faces, they were both armed, they both had plenty of reasons to avoid the police. It wasn't like they'd _tell_ on each other. But it was instinct at this point. "But anyway, I needed — you know, _something_ — and I already had Tinder, so . . ."

She grinned, giggling in a lighthearted happy way that didn't fit the situation at all and made his heartbeat stutter. "On your personal phone? Don't you know never to shit where you eat, _Edward?"_ The way she said it, the teasing sparkle in her eyes, told him that she knew his name was as fake as hers must've been. Like this was a joke they were both in on.

Well, he could play along. Besides, he . . . didn't want this to end just yet. "I'm not used to planning these kinda things out, _Catherine,"_ he shot back, twirling his knife and smiling despite himself.

"Call me Cathy." She winked and climbed off the bed. "You won't try and stab me if I go to the bathroom, will you?"

It wasn't like there were many weapons that could be made out of hotel toiletries — and certainly no escape routes — but he couldn't be too careful. He couldn't forget who he was dealing with, no matter how unthreatening her smile or how pretty her eyes. "Door open," he warned.

"Seriously?" When he raised his eyebrows in response she shrugged, flicking the safety back on the gun and handing it to him. "Here. As a show of good faith."

 


	2. David and Gwen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hey, you ever heard of those mercs in California? Vagabond and, uh . . . I think they call the other one Brownman?" He raised his eyebrows and shook his head; he didn't have much of an interest in crime, not outside these brief instances. Gwen continued, focusing her intense gaze on the tools she was sanitizing. "Pretty sure they're part of a gang now, but for, like, years they had this whole Bonnie and Clyde thing going on." Her words came out in a rush, mumbled and hurried even as her hands continued their methodical, almost languid, work. "It was the first time I'd ever heard of . . . you know, people like us . . . not being alone." Finally she looked up at him, her expression guarded and already defensive.
> 
> Feeling a little like he was being tricked somehow, he could only stammer, "Um, th-that's . . . I mean, that's really — uh . . ."
> 
> "I'm not saying we should move in together or anything stupid like that. It's just . . . if you ever need help with, you know, this —" she gestured at his bathtub without looking in his direction, "I wouldn't mind you having my number, that's all."
> 
> He smiled. "I'd like that, Gwen."

"So . . . what now? Do we fight to the death or something?" She smirked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and it was the effortless beauty of the movement, the self-conscious nonchalance that flipped his stomach, that made him realize he'd lost.

He couldn't kill her.

"Let's go for a walk," he said abruptly, putting his hands on his knees and standing. Her eyes widened, then narrowed, and he noticed the fingers on her right hand twitch like she wished she had a weapon. "Somewhere very public." When she stared at him blankly, he set his knife on the table behind him, holding her gun out to her as slowly as possible, and added, "I'm just feeling a bit — restless. Aren't you?"

"Whatever," she finally muttered with a shrug, climbing to her feet. "Like today wasn't weird enough already." But he saw the way she bounced on the balls of her feet as he shrugged into his coat, how she traced the mottled wallpaper like she was reading Braille. She was jumpy, too.

Apparently this . . . _thing_ they did attracted a very particular type of person, the kind who couldn't sit still for too long without getting antsy.

He handed her back her gun, which she returned to her purse, and slid his knife back into his backpack.

 _This is stupid,_ a voice — one that sounded very much like Max — growled in the back of his mind. _Acting like you're buddy-buddy with a fucking serial killer, like you’re on a goddamn date . . . what the fuck are you thinking?!_

He wasn’t sure what he was thinking, honestly. He just knew that it was hard to worry when he was in this mindset, and that — that _confidence_ , combined with the surrealness of the evening and the electric weight of a wary purple gaze as he backed into the hallway . . .

It all added up to a little bit of stupid, apparently.

But he was fairly sure it was a good kind of stupid.

* * *

 

“Hey!”

David’s head shot up, the pine tree keychains he’d been fingering forgotten. Catherine — or whatever her name really was — had wandered over another booth a few feet away, and that was where the voice had come from.

The man was big, tall and broad in a way that reminded him of Mr. Campbell, and while Catherine wasn’t particularly tiny, she looked small and fragile as the stranger loomed over her. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly, darting around until they landed on David (or Edward; he had to try and remember the name he’d given her). “Uh . . . Could you not?”

“No need to be like that,” he replied pleasantly, reaching out to stroke her upper arm with a smile. “I’m just being friendly, come on.”

There wasn’t anything _technically_ dangerous about the man’s words or tone, but there was something about being in charge of a bunch of vulnerable children — not to mention this particular hobby — that made him particularly aware of the kind of skin-prickling shivery sensation that he called intuition and his campers called “spotting creepers.” Regardless of what it was called, it made him take a few tentative steps forward, putting his hand on her shoulder and drawing her to his side.

“Sorry, Cathy,” he said with a bland smile at the man. “Didn’t mean to leave you alone like that! I just got distracted.” He let his eyes travel the length of the stranger, keeping his expression carefully disinterested while cataloging everything important: build, weight, whether or not he seemed armed . . . “Can we help you?”

“Never mind. I can take a hint.” The man shoved between them, giving them one last dirty look before stalking away. Less than ten feet from them, he discovered another young woman and veered over to her.

She leaned against his arm, taking his elbow like they were a normal couple on a normal date. They watched the man, who'd taken ahold of the young woman's long maroon hair and was "playfully" winding it through his fingers, tugging on it and making her flinch. After a moment Catherine moved in close to his ear and whispered, "Still feeling itchy, _Ed?"_

He was.

* * *

 

"You know . . ." She paused, stripping off her gloves and carefully making sure she didn't drip any blood on the floor. "This was . . . fun. I don't _do_ this for fun, but . . ."

"I know what you mean." He resisted the impulse to smile; it just felt wrong to flirt while holding a man's partially-dissolved head. "It's less lonely."

Why did he say that?

He wasn't lonely — at least, he'd never thought of himself as such. Even doing this . . . _thing_ , even though it was hours all by himself in the dead of night and secrets and avoiding close relationships because someone must find out eventually . . . It never felt lonely. It never weighed on him, how much nicer it would be to have someone to talk to on long drives, someone to poke holes in his rare plans, to be there with a car or a shotgun or a distraction. More importantly, he'd never considered the way it might feel to have someone look at him and understand exactly why he had to do this.

He . . . well, he was going to miss it.

The silence had been just long enough to become stifling, and she broke it with a grunt of effort, grabbing the bucket of dirty tools and hauling them over to the lab's second bathtub. "Not to mention I've got a lot to learn about this whole Dexter thing. Always just . . . you know, dumped 'em in a river or whatever was cheapest." Putting her bloodstained hands on her hips, she looked around the room with a low whistle of admiration. "This is a hell of a setup."

"It's not mine. My boss, he, ah . . . has lots of properties. Or — abandoned properties? I'm not really sure, but I-I found a copy of his keys and a map, and . . . well."

"The fuck does your boss _do?"_ Again she eyed the room: the drains in the floor, the steel rolling tables, the bathtubs and the heavy-duty sinks.

"I've never asked."

She laughed, shaking her head. "Can't blame you for that, Ed."

"David." He didn't know why he said it, but he also didn't really want to take it back. "My — my real name. It's David."

"Huh. Wouldn't have pegged you for it." She looked him up and down. "Suits you, though." He shrugged and looked away, reaching for the bottle of bleach again. "I'm Gwen, by the way."

David didn't know why something as simple as a name should affect him, but it took a few deep breaths before he could reply. "Ni-ice to meet you," he replied, wincing at the crack in his voice.

After a few more minutes of quietly working she spoke again, her voice softer. "Hey, you ever heard of those mercs in California? Vagabond and, uh . . . I think they call the other one Brownman?" He raised his eyebrows and shook his head; he didn't have much of an interest in crime, not outside these brief instances. Gwen continued, focusing her intense gaze on the tools she was sanitizing. "Pretty sure they're part of a gang now, but for, like, years they had this whole Bonnie and Clyde thing going on." Her words came out in a rush, mumbled and hurried even as her hands continued their methodical, almost languid, work. "It was the first time I'd ever heard of . . . you know, people like us . . . not being alone." Finally she looked up at him, her expression guarded and already defensive.

Feeling a little like he was being tricked somehow, he could only stammer, "Um, th-that's . . . I mean, that's really — uh . . ."

"I'm not saying we should move in together or anything stupid like that. It's just . . . if you ever need help with, you know, _this_ —" she gestured at his bathtub without looking in his direction, "I wouldn't mind you having my number, that's all."

He smiled. "I'd like that, Gwen."

"All right." Laying the last of the tools out to dry, she wandered over to David's tub, grimacing at the mess. "You need help burying whatever's left?"

He shook his head. "No, I like digging. It's relaxing."

"If you say so." She watched him work, crouching down next to him and resting her elbows on her knees. "So, David, this boss of yours . . . wouldn't happen to be hiring, would he?" David glanced over at her in surprise and she shrugged. "Could use some money. S'not like this pays the bills, right?"

"I'll see what I can do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys had fun! There might be a third chapter if I can find a way to work Daniel and Jen into this fic, but at the moment I'm considering this bad boy finished. Thanks for reading and for leaving comments/kudos -- I really didn't expect the reaction I've gotten and it's amazing! :)


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